


Pillow Talk

by The_Queen_In_The_North



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Loss of Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25734376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Queen_In_The_North/pseuds/The_Queen_In_The_North
Summary: Sansa Stark's chambermaid, Shae, gets her drunk in celebration of her sixteenth nameday. And in doing so, leads Sansa to spark a flame with none other than Sandor Clegane.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 59
Kudos: 291





	1. Chapter 1

“If you could take anyone into your bed, who would it be?”

Sansa stared at her raven-haired maid inside her softly-lit bedchamber late in the night, the sight of her blurred due to the amount of wine she had drunk. Bolder now from the sweet arbor red, Sansa leaned in closer to Shae atop the bed and whispered, “The one outside my door.”

Shae gasped, then giggled wildy afterwards. “M’lady!”

“Shhh! If we are caught drinking, _stupid_ Joffrey will have me beat.”

“We won’t be caught,” her maid said confidently. “I thought m’lady would enjoy a belated nameday gift-- you only turn six-and-ten once.”

Sansa smiled drunkenly and took another sip of the wine. “I haven’t had this much fun in a year.” 

“I’m glad, m’lady,” Shae said, far more sober than Sansa was. 

_That’s because she’s older than I am,_ she thought. _That and because_ **_stupid_ ** _Joffrey doesn’t forbid_ **_her_ ** _from drinking._

“Who would you take into your bed?” Sansa asked playfully. 

A wicked smile formed on her maid’s lips. “Guess.”

Sansa giggled into the palm of her hand. “I wouldn’t know!”

“But you would-- you know him, m’lady.”

“I _do_?” That excited her more. Reaching over to place her cup down onto the table beside her bed, Sansa stared at her maid for a long while and finally guessed. “One of the stewards?”

Shae grimaced. “No, m’lady. He’s _higborn_.”

Sansa’s hands rushed to cover her gaping mouth, but she was so drunk that she accidentally slapped herself in the face. Shae erupted into laughter at the sight. “Did you say _highborn_?”

“And golden-haired,” her maid added with a smirk.

Sansa suddenly felt sick at the mention of golden hair. “Ew, not Joffrey!”

“Gods, no, m’lady! I see how he mistreats you. Fuck him.” 

Sansa gasped but was soon giggling brazenly at her maid's slight to the king, her despicable golden-haired betrothed. When she reached over for her cup, she knocked it off the table, spilling the crimson contents onto the floor. “Seven hells,” she cursed.

“Here, take mine,” Shae said, handing her the cup. 

Sansa meant to have only one sip, but that one sip turned into a lengthy swig, and soon the cup was dry and empty. “So who? Highborn, golden-haired…”

“And short.”

The delayed realization made her eyes widen. Sansa stood clumsily from the bed in nothing but her white, silken small clothes and dropped the emptied wine cup onto the stone floor, the sound of it discordant to her ears. “Oh, gods! Lord Tyrion!?”

A booming knock came at her door after her shout that nearly made her fall over. 

“I think the one you’d like in your bed wants you to open the door,” Shae snickered girlishly.

Sansa’s heart fluttered inside her chest. “Where’s my robe?” 

“It’s right in front of you m’lady,” Shae said, gesturing towards the chest at the end of her canopy bed where the robe was draped. “But, don’t put it on.”

“ _What_?” Sansa startled when the second knock came, the fist hitting the oak far more vigorously than the first. 

“Go on,” Shae encouraged her with a perky grin. “Just poke your head out and see what the one you want in your bed wants.”

If she thought she had been drunk before, she was wrong. Sansa felt hot and flushed despite being practically as naked as her nameday, and as she walked towards the door, she stumbled over her own feet several times before reaching the handle. Her fingers stumbled about the latch for a moment until the metal finally lowered, and slowly, Sansa inched the door open just enough for her to stick her face out towards the dark-haired man on the other side. “Yes?” she asked innocently. When he turned around to face her, she saw that he was visibly irritated, and Sansa couldn’t help but to burst into laughter. 

The Hound squinted at her suspiciously. “What’s so bloody amusing?”

It took several seconds for her giggling to end, the fit leaving her breathless afterwards. “You.”

“ _Me_?” he scoffed. “What do I look like to you, girl? The king’s bloody fool?”

Sansa pressed her lips together in an attempt to maintain her composure, but that only made her laugh harder.

“M’lady,” Shae said behind her, placing a tender hand on her shoulder, “I believe I’ll retire for the night.”

Looking over at her chambermaid, she discovered a roguish smile on her lips, an expression that silently urged her to take the Hound into her room. _Or maybe it's only the wine urging me._ “Thank you for the wi...cleaning my bedchamber,” Sansa poorly lied.

Shae placed her mouth beside her ear and whispered, “I’m going to slip into Tyrion’s bed now.” Sansa giggled, knowing it was only a jape. However, her maid’s words _did_ sound awfully convincing. “Have a pleasant night, m’lady.”

Mindlessly, she pulled the door wide open for her to exit. It wasn’t until Shae walked into the corridor and departed did Sansa notice that the Hound’s grey eyes were burning into her exposed ivory skin. Had she been sober, she would have blushed and shut the door in an instant. But the wine made her dauntless, shameless, and she kept the door wide open. When a deep exhale escaped him, she felt her nipples harden. His fierce eyes seemed to notice that, too.

“Look at me,” he muttered quietly in the doorway. Sansa lifted her vivid blue Tully eyes directly onto his. Even with her vision blurred, Sansa could see the longing in his eyes, an insatiable hunger. It wasn’t the first time he had looked at her that way. Many times in court Sansa would try to steal glances at her betrothed’s sworn shield, Sandor Clegane, even if for only a second, and just as many times, she had caught him glancing at her in return with a look in his eyes that could only mean desire. Still, his mouth frowned. “The little bird is drunk.”

Minutes ago that would have made her burst into laughter, but now his words, his eyes, were making her bite her bottom lip. _He looks so comely tonight._ Sansa stood taller and let go of the handle to prove him wrong, but that only resulted in her losing her balance. Had the Hound not grabbed her arm and pulled her to him, she would have fallen face first onto the ground.

His firm grip remained on her upper arm while he lowered his head to whisper into her ear, provoking a variety of lascivious thoughts to cross her mind. “Giggling and reeling-- you _are_ drunk, little bird. You’d put half the bastards in the winesinks to shame.” 

Sansa’s hands were pressed against his broad chest and she found herself caressing the leather dog’s head sewn on the front of his red woolen tunic with her fingertips. “You’re so soft,” she breathed, almost in awe. When she looked up at the Hound’s expression, there had been a faint smile before he gently nudged her forward. 

“Let’s get you into bed, girl. You’d do well to sleep it off, else you’ll be falling over in court on the morrow.” The Hound led her forward into the room with his grip still on her arm, so solid it was as if he never wanted to let go. Once they approached the edge of the bed, he stepped into the puddle of wine she had spilled and shook his head. “Arbor red, no wonder you’re in your bloody cups.”

“I am not!” she said defensively. 

“Is that so, little bird?” The Hound gently nudged her forward once again to sit her onto the bed. “You probably don’t even know who you’re talking to.” He sounded sad. 

“ _Sandor Clegane_.” Sansa said his name as if she were singing a song. When the name left her lips, she wondered if it only sounded sweet to her because she was drunk. _Or perhaps it’s because I’ve never said his name aloud before,_ she realized. _I love his name._

He was silent for a moment, towering over her beside the bed and staring at her with the same aching desire in his eyes. The grip left her arm reluctantly before easing her down onto the bed with both hands on her shoulders. Once she rested on her back, Sansa could feel the arousal that had developed between her legs. 

“So, the little bird _does_ know,” he finally remarked with another faint smile. The Hound looked at the table beside her bed and peered into the flagon of wine, shaking his head once again when he discovered that it was empty. He reached down to grab the flagon of water and filled a cup up to the brim. “Drink, girl.”

“I’m not thirsty,” she said stubbornly, crossing her legs once she felt the silken smallclothes soaking through.

His eyes shifted down, and he cleared his throat. “Not now, but you will be. You’re like to feel half a corpse in the morning if you don’t drink some water.” Sandor Clegane placed the cup on her bottom lip, almost sensually. “Drink.”

Sansa kept her eyes locked on his as she sipped the water, listening to his hand tighten around the cup. When he took it away and placed it roughly atop the table, he reached down to grab her blanket at the foot of her bed. With one hand, the Hound tossed it over her nearly nude body, but not before taking one last fleeting glance down at her. Somehow the silent moment together left her more breathless than when she had been laughing.

He leaned down to prop her head up with a second pillow, his long hair brushing against her cheek. “You don’t want to be laying flat if you get sick.” _He’s taking care of me, truly,_ Sansa thought blissfully. Before the Hound could stand back up, Sansa threw her arms around his neck, ungracefully smacking his face in the process, and lifted herself up to steal a kiss. 

Sandor Clegane didn’t pull away immediately, but when he did, it was all at once. Her lips never felt so cold, so bare. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ve got to go.” 

When he turned on his heel, Sansa sat up so quickly the room started to spin. “Wait!” He paused just short of the doorway but made no attempt to look over his shoulder. “Can’t you stay?” the slurred words escaped her.

Her question didn’t just make him look over his shoulder, he turned all the way around to face her and shut the door behind him. “That arbor red is making you chirp some strange things, little bird.”

“Stay,” she said again. Her once girlish, giggling mood was replaced with a deep melancholy. “Please.”

He dropped his eyes from the sight of her pleading and exhaled sharply. “I can’t.”

“It’s so late, _stupid_ Joffrey and everyone else will be asleep,” Sansa continued to persuade him, her head growing dizzier with every word she uttered. “Lay next to me,” she said boldly, lightly patting the space on the bed beside her. 

“Seven fucking hells,” she heard the Hound curse to himself, standing motionless in the same spot beside the door. “No.”

Perhaps the rejection would have hit her differently had she been sober instead of drunk, but it stung so bad she felt tears well up in her eyes. “Did you...not like my kiss?”

His gaze shifted abruptly from the floor towards her, and the Hound looked angrier than he had when she first opened the door for him. “Did I not like your kiss?” he said mockingly. “Of course I liked your kiss. I bloody loved it!”

Sansa prayed she heard him correctly and wondered if the wine was playing tricks. His rousing admission made the room spin less. “So, why don’t--”

“You’re drunk,” he said definitively. “You’ll curse yourself on the morrow for what you’re saying to me, girl. And for the...” The Hound turned around and hesitantly placed his hand onto the handle of the door. “Had you asked me while you were sober, there’s no bloody way I would have said no.”

Quicker than she could inhale, Sandor Clegane opened the door and departed her bedchamber. The room started to spin again with his absence. Sansa sipped from the cup of water he had poured for her, fell back against the pillows he had propped up for her, and nuzzled underneath the blanket he had covered her with. 

_Then I’ll ask him when I am sober_ , she thought just before closing her eyes to a dizzying darkness and drifting off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

“Wake up!” shouted her betrothed. “You are to attend court.”

Curled up and hidden underneath her blanket, Sansa truly _did_ feel like a corpse the following morning; her head was heavy, her stomach uneasy, and the sound of Joffrey’s whining all but drove her mad. However, her ailments from too much wine the night before were not what led her to toss the blanket over herself. At the sound of King Joffrey’s abrupt entrance, Sansa immediately thought of who would be with him and the broken fragments of memories from last night returned to her.

 _I opened the door for the Hound in nothing but my smallclothes,_ she remembered, her cheeks blushing at the memory. _And then I kissed him. I kissed him and begged for him to lay in my bed._ Sansa cringed when she imagined how utterly absurd she must have sounded, but even still, she did not regret it. The kiss had left her breathless, she recalled, but her dulled senses didn’t allow her to savor it while it lasted. _I could do it again. I could kiss him and ask him to stay with me while I’m sober. He said he would stay. But, how am I to be so bold without the wine?_

“Dog, remove her blanket,” Joffrey ordered.

“No, please. I’m sick,” Sansa whimpered. The irritating light in the room greeted her when the Hound pulled down her blanket from the foot of the bed, but only did so until her face was visible, leaving her scantily dressed body hidden. 

“Sick,” the king scoffed. “You’re lying.”

“Your Grace,” her chambermaid chimed in, “I can attest that Lady Sansa has been sick several times since last night.” 

While Sansa was not sincerely sick, merely indisposed from her belated nameday gift, it was true that she had vomited several times onto the floor beside her bed. Had the Hound not propped up her pillows before departing, she likely would have slept in it. Shae had come to her bedchamber before first light and cleaned the floor of spilled and retched wine alike, removing any evidence that Sansa had been drinking the night prior. Afterwards, she begged her maid for water; never had her mouth been so dry, nor her bladder so full. After Shae helped her to the privy and back, Sansa collapsed back onto bed and groaned. _The Hound was wrong, I feel like a whole corpse, not half._ She was keen on the idea of a bath to ease her malaise, but Joffrey barged in just before Shae could help her over to the tub.

With her auburn hair tousled, much of it covering her face, Sansa lifted her head up and squinted at the men standing at the foot of her bed. Joffrey was scowling at her, Ser Boros Blount, the kingsguard who was ever eager to beat her on command of his king, stood to his left with an ugly frown, and to his right was _him_ , the Hound. Sansa did not know whether it was due to her post-drunk ailments, but she could not read the expression on his face, nor the look in his eyes. 

“You look horrible,” Joffrey remarked. “Not pretty at all. Perhaps the gods are punishing you for being the daughter of a traitor,” he said smugly. 

“Yes, Your Grace. Perhaps,” she said weakly, wishing she had the fireceness from last night to curse him out.

The king looked her over once more before grimacing. “I don’t need you vomiting in my throne room, so you’ll stay here. But since Starks are all liars, I’ll have one of my men posted outside your door.” An atrocious smile played on his pouty lips, and Sansa wished she could cut them off. “It does pain me to see my betrothed ill, so I’ll let you choose which of my men stays with you. Who scares you the least, my lady? Ser Boros or my dog?”

 _It’s a trick,_ she knew before the words finished leaving his mouth. _Whatever I answer, he will choose the other._

“Ser Boros, Your Grace. Please-- anyone but the Hound.” Sansa was grateful that she was no longer drunk, or else she would have had another giggling fit before she finished her mummer’s act. Sandor Clegane’s mysterious expression briefly shifted to one of dismay before it dawned on him what she was doing, his tense body loosening in response.

“My dog it is!” Joffrey said proudly, ignorant as ever. “Come, Ser Boros.” 

Sansa lifted the blanket over her mouth to hide the smile that had formed just before the king and his cruelest member of the Kingsguard exited. The Hound looked at her and saw the way her eyes smiled, but rather than share the amusement, he only stared at her with the indecipherable expression he wore that morning. Any and all amusement Sansa felt was cut short when she realized that she would now have to muster up the courage, the boldness, she had last night to ask the man at the foot of her bed to stay, to lay beside her. _To kiss me._

Her maid placed her hand into the bath she had drawn for her and said, “M’lady must needs bathe.”

 _I can’t ask him to stay_ **_now_ ** _,_ she thought disappointedly. _Although I would have last night. I could have been as naked as my nameday and felt no shame at all asking him to stay with me. I should ask him. I will ask him._

The words were lost on her, and the silence that followed as her and Sandor Clegane stared at one another were more painful than the throbbing inside her head. Shae glanced at her and then at the Hound and suppressed a giggle. Much like Sansa was begging herself to say something, so, too, was he. Yet when the silence lingered, he dropped his gaze and turned towards the door, exiting without a word to stand guard on the other side.

“Gods,” Sansa cursed quietly.

Shae sauntered over to the bed and offered her a hand. “Will m’lady tell me what happened last night now?” 

With the assistance of her maid, Sansa stood from the bed and stripped off her silken smallclothes, feeling like she would become sick again. “Please just help me into the tub, Shae.”

The water, though cooled from sitting so long, was more than a welcome sensation on her aching body. While Shae added droplets of lavender oil into the water, Sansa sat all the way back until her head was fully submerged, the caress of water alleviating the pressure inside her head. Sitting underneath the water dulled her senses much like the wine had, leaving Sansa to reflect on the moment with the Hound and cursing herself once again for not saying anything. _After I bathe,_ _I’ll have Shae bring him in here. I’ll ask him to stay with me while Joffrey and the rest are at court. And this time, I’ll be sober._

Sansa reemerged to the surface, taking in a much needed deep breath before noticing that Shae was gone. While her maid’s sudden absence was curious, Sansa felt relieved that she wouldn’t have to explain to her how bold she had become last night, what she had done, what she had said. _What if I am remembering it all wrong?_ The intrusive thought came to the forefront of her mind. _What if he never came into my bedchamber at all? What if I never kissed him, nor asked him to stay?_ Sansa thought of how the Hound had looked that morning and convinced herself that it couldn’t have been her imagination. He was acting different, too, and for once, she could not discern what he was thinking. _I’ll ask him to stay,_ she repeated. _Sober._

Sansa bathed for several minutes, washing her hair and scrubbing over every inch of her body with the soap until her skin was practically raw, removing all the wine, sweat, and vomit that had accumulated overnight. Afterwards, she placed her hands onto the edge of the tub and slowly pushed herself up to standing from the water. The room was spinning once again when she spotted her robe draped over the chest just beside her. Stretching out one arm to reach it, Sansa lost her balance and fell, her upper body hanging over the edge of the tub while her legs collapsed back into the water. Sansa yelped when her face hit the stone, and in the span of one short breath, the door flew open.

Even with her face pressed against the floor, Sansa knew that the Hound’s eyes were surveying the sight of her fully nude and hanging over the edge of the tub with her ass poking in the air, her ivory skin glistening from the lavender scented bathwater, as goose pimples arose from the chill. She heard him curse under his breath. It was the first sound Sansa heard him mutter that morning. At once, she felt the same arousal that had soaked her smallclothes last night return. Just before she attempted to push herself up, his gloved hands fell underneath her arms and lifted her from the tub and onto her feet in front of him. The room stopped spinning now that he was with her. Sansa wanted to read his expression but she kept her head down, far less unabashed than she had been only hours ago. Her damp hands were pressed against him, as were her breasts, and she scarcely remembered how she had caressed the leather on his tunic the night before. He was wearing armor now, soot-dark and plain, but nevertheless she let her fingers brush over it slowly, the water from her hands dripping down the dark steel, almost erotically.

They stood there, the eldest daughter of Winterfell and Joffrey’s dog, in total silence, the only sound inside her bedchamber coming from the water that dripped from her long, auburn hair and created a puddle on the floor. Sansa couldn’t talk, let alone think, once she felt Sandor Clegane’s confined manhood pressing against her skin. Never had Sansa wished for a cup of wine more than she did in that moment. She was desperate for the shamelessness, the impulsivity, to say what she was thinking. But it was no good - nothing would come to her. Every time she thought about lifting her eyes onto his and kissing him, a blush stole up her cheeks.

 _I’ll never be able to ask him,_ she realized. _I may never be able to talk to him again._

When the silence endured for a second longer, the Hound exhaled and sat her down atop the chest where her robe lay, handing it to her without a word. Sansa placed the robe into her lap and brushed it with her fingertips. _His tunic was softer,_ she thought as he made his way to exit the door.

“Wait,” Sansa said at last. The Hound stilled his pace abruptly, quicker than he had last night when she spoke up, and released the deepest of sighs. _Ask him._ “Can’t you stay?”

As if she had somehow returned to that same moment in the late hours of the night, the Hound turned around to face her and shut the door behind him. Sansa feared the rejection, the sting from him telling her no, but her dread was short lived. For unlike last night entirely, Sandor Clegane strode over to her, picked up her damp, nude body into his arms, and said, “There’s no bloody way I’d say no,” just before stealing a kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor Clegane’s lips were more intoxicating than any amount of wine. Arbor red, Arbor gold, Dornish red-- it did not matter. The Hound’s kiss was more potent than it all. _Did his kiss feel so singular last night?_ she tried to recall. _It must have, only I was too drunk to relish in it._

The one kiss turned into a wild embrace, and Sansa felt as daring as she had the night before once he held her in his arms. It was not just the kiss that enraptured her, but also the hands that lifted her up, the breaths that escaped him in between kisses, and the distinct sensation of his scars brushing against her skin, skin that could not be more different from his own. The moment would have been perfect, even better than the stories and songs, had her _former_ intoxication not been present. Quite abruptly, she tore away from his kiss and cupped her hands over her mouth just before she began dry heaving. Sansa was immediately thankful she had yet to break her fast that morning. 

“The little bird finds me that repulsive, does she?” the Hound said, short of breath.

When Sansa looked at him, teary eyed from her body’s attempt to cleanse itself, she discovered the unburnt side of his mouth was smirking. 

As soon as the embrace ended, so, too, did her confidence, and never had she felt more mortified than she did in that moment. _I just became sick in the Hound’s arms....I’m_ **_naked_ ** _in the Hound’s arms._ Sansa removed her hands from her mouth and whispered, “Forgive me.”

Sandor Clegane didn’t just smirk, he guffawed at her apology. “Forgive you for what, girl? I’d be bloody impressed if you weren’t retching this morning. Rest ought to fix that.” Ever slightly, the gloved hands that were lifting her up by her thighs squeezed, and Sansa felt a wetness between her legs that was not lavender scented bathwater. The Hound carried her over to the edge of the bed and lowered her onto the feather mattress. His hands lingered on her legs afterwards, and his eyes lingered in between them. “And you’ll need to eat.”

Sansa shook her head and quickly regretted it once her nausea surged. “No, I can’t.”

His attention shifted from the auburn maidenhair between her legs to gaze at her breasts. Sansa’s ladylike instincts told her to reach for the blanket and protect her modesty, but another instinct, one which seemed to have been sowed from the Arbor red, told her not to. Sansa listened to the latter.

“It wasn’t a question,” he said throatily. The Hound removed his hands from her legs, his eyes from her nipples, and turned on his heel to make his way towards the door.

“What are you doing?” she asked, almost desperately. 

His hand met the latch, and he just about smacked the metal in order to bar the door. “Staying,” he answered.

Sansa grabbed the blanket, not to cover her body, but to hide the smitten smile that had formed on her lips. Another intrusive thought came to her mind when the Hound made his way towards her, a thought she foolishly never considered, and the sudden glee fled. “What if Joffrey--”

“That little blonde cunt will be at court for hours, girl. You’ve seen how he savors every moment he can clip off a tongue or slice off a hand from a bloody Kingslander.”

The Hound felt more massive once he laid on the bed beside her than he did when standing in front of her. Once he tossed his head back onto a pillow, he reached out with one arm to wrap around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. Their bodies fit together so naturally that it was as if it had been the hundredth time the two laid beside one another. When Sansa rested her head on his chest, she never knew that a breastplate could be so comfortable. 

Her eyes faced the foot of the bed, and just after she observed how Sandor Clegane’s feet nearly hung off the edge, she spotted the bulge underneath his trousers, void of any armor. At the sight, her ladylike instincts battled with her newfound dauntless instincts. _I would have touched him last night,_ she thought. _I would have done it without considering it at all._ The longer she contemplated it, the sicker she felt, and before she would start dry heaving again, Sansa lifted her hand from his chest and placed it on atop his aroused manhood. 

The Hound jolted so hard it made her gasp, and he groaned loud enough to be heard by anyone who chanced to walk beside her door. “Bloody hell!”

Sansa swiftly removed her hand and lifted her head up to observe his expression. She read the desire in his eyes, but she also read the anger. “Forgi--”

“Spare me the apologies. You’re a hasty little bird, aren’t you?” 

“ _Hasty_?” she said defensively. Sansa clutched the blanket to her body, suddenly vexed by his response. 

“Aye, you heard me,” he said sternly, “I said you needed to rest.”

Risking making herself sick again, Sansa sat up from the bed, the same fierceness from last night slowly returning, and huffed. “Do you not want me?”

“Do I not--” the Hound couldn’t even finish mocking her before he erupted into a snarling laugh.

Sansa frowned at his hilarity. “You wouldn’t lay with me last night, and now that you are, you don’t want to do anything.” She couldn’t believe the words that were leaving her mouth, and it was evident that neither could he.

Sandor Clegane sat up and his face grew dour. “So, the little bird thinks I don’t want her. You couldn’t begin to imagine what I wanted to do to you last night, what I want to do to you right bloody now.”

The ferocity in his tone aroused her, and the blanket fell from her hand and into her lap, baring her breasts that rose and fell with each quick breath. “Tell me.”

Once the Hound observed that he piqued her curiosity, he pulled her into his lap, eagerly but gently, and placed one hand on the small of her neck to lock his eyes onto hers. “I would have ripped off that pretty silk you wore with my teeth last night. When I placed that cup against your lips, watched you sip the water while your eyes were on mine, I wanted to pull my cock out and fuck your mouth with it. And just now, when I walked in and saw you bent over that tub, I wanted to come up right behind you and fuck you in the water with that door wide open. You don’t know what you’re saying, girl. I’ve never wanted a kill, wine, or gold as much as I’ve wanted to hear you moan while I fuck you bloody. But I’m no rapist like my buggering brother, and I’m not a sadistic little twat like Joffrey. I wasn’t going to fuck you while you were in your cups, and I’m not like to do it when you’re ill. If I take that maidenhead of yours, I want to know it’s what you really want, and I want you to enjoy it.”

Sansa was left astonished by his words, the confession utterly vulgar yet overly endearing all at once. _Any other man would have taken me last night no matter how drunk I was, but not him. And even sober, he refuses to take me while I’m sick._ Looking into his eyes, Sansa wondered if the warm sensation she felt growing inside her was the same one her mother felt when looking at her father. “When,” Sansa said in a hushed voice.

“What?” 

When her fearlessness endured, Sansa hoped that it would never leave. “You said _if_ you take my maidenhead, but you should be saying _when_.”

The Hound pulled her face to meet his with the hand that rested on the back of her neck, and the kiss that followed was so ravenous that Sansa thought he would reconsider waiting for her sickness to ebb. He laid back onto the bed with her on top of him, her breasts pressing against his dark chestplate, and rested his head on the pillow. “And when is that, little bird?”

When another wave of nausea hit her as she looked down at him, she rolled over onto the pillow beside him and lifted one hand to cup the scarred side of his face. The urge to become sick was mitigated once she rested against him, tracing her fingers alongside his burns, and soon, a drowsiness overcame her. “Tonight,” she whispered. 

* * *

Some time later, Sansa awoke with her arm still stretched out, but the Hound was no longer underneath it. 

When she pushed herself up and surveyed the room, she found no sign of Sandor Clegane, only her chambermaid who was placing a tray down onto the table. The rays from the sun bled into her room at an angle that indicated it was noon or a little past. _I’ve been sleeping for hours,_ she realized.

Shae found her robe lying on the floor and softly handed it to her. “M’lady, the one you’d like in your bed had this brought for you,” she said, gesturing towards the tray.

Sansa slipped on her robe, tying it snugly about her waist, and discovered that she no longer felt dizzy. As she stood from the bed, Sansa noticed that her body was still fatigued, but no longer required her maid’s assistance to walk across her bedchamber. Despite feeling marginally better, the smell of food was revolting and turned her stomach. Begrudgingly, Sansa sat at the table and grimaced at the plate in front of her. “None of it looks appetizing.”

While Shae was putting fresh sheets on the bed, she said, “I believe his words were, ‘make sure she eats it all, or she’ll pay for it tonight’.”

Sansa felt her cheeks blush, but soon doubted the words and squinted at her maid. “He did not say that.”

“He did, m’lady,” she assured her. When Sansa picked up the cup of water from the tray and made to take a sip, Shae added, “He also instructed that I bring you a warm rag tonight so you may soothe your cunt after he’s through with it.”

Sansa spat the water across the table and thought she might choke to death on the little she managed to swallow. “Oh, gods. Shae!”

Her chambermaid was even prettier when she giggled, and she was giggling uncontrollably. “Well, he didn’t say that _last_ part,” she admitted, “but I’ll bring the rag for you anyway, m’lady.”

 _She is unlike any maid I’ve ever met,_ she thought. _She even has eyes for Tyrion Lannister from afar...unless that was only a drunken misunderstanding. Hopefully it was._

“I certainly hope you don’t speak to the other highborn ladies like that,” she said, still taken aback by her maid’s lack of shame. Sansa was never offended by it, but rather envious, desperate to be so naturally bold.

“Only you,” her maid said innocently. Shae sat beside her at the table and handed her the slice of toast when she saw Sansa had yet to touch her food. “Eat, m’lady.”

Sansa nibbled at it, praying that it would not come back up shortly after. When she was able to swallow it without gagging, she took another bite, and then another. Soon, she was grazing on the fruit, even the hardboiled egg on her plate, but she skipped over the bacon entirely and handed it over to Shae instead. While sampling her food, Sansa became lost in her thoughts, thinking of nothing other than what awaited her that night with Sandor Clegane. _I don’t know how to please a man,_ she thought fretfully _. I wouldn’t even have known what to do if the Hound_ **_did_ ** _let me touch him earlier._

“Are you all right, m’lady?” Shae asked, sparking an idea as soon as she heard her pretty, older, and more experienced maid’s voice.

“Shae,” Sansa began, her voice quivering the slightest bit, “do you know...how to please a man?”

Her maid gave her a curious look and laughed afterwards. “I’ve pleased a couple, m’lady,” she confessed.

Taking in a deep breath, Sansa asked, “Can you tell me one or two things that I can do to...please him?”

Shae crossed her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair. “Does m’lady think that I am _so_ crude that I would discuss one or two things with her about what I do to men in bed?”

Sansa’s face flushed with embarrassment, and she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean--”

The mummer’s act did not last long, for Shae soon giggled at Sansa’s shocked expression and uncrossed her arms, reaching out to grab her hands not like a maid, but like a best friend, a sister. “I’ll not tell you one or two things, m’lady. I’ll tell you everything.”


	4. Chapter 4

Never had Sansa sat through a discussion so closely, nor so intently, than she had with her maid that afternoon.

Grasping onto every word, Sansa couldn’t believe how little she knew about the intricacies of love making or _‘fucking_ ’ as the Hound and Shae preferred to call it. As a highborn lady, it was not expected, and therefore never discussed, to know how to please a man aside from allowing him into your bed after the wedding and doing so from time to time to give him children. As dishonorable as it may be, it was common knowledge that many highborn men received the erotic sort of pleasures from whores or paramours rather than their wives. However, Sansa refused to be another _boring_ highborn lady; she would not merely spread her legs for the Hound. And she certainly would not allow Shae’s advice to go in vain.

Two hours had passed before Shae finished, and the discussion only ended because Maester Pycelle stopped by her bedchamber to examine Sansa. The Grand Maester was not sent by Joffrey but by Tyrion Lannister who had heard she was ill. _Of course Joffrey wouldn’t send the maester to me. He would prefer I fall over dead._ When Maester Pycelle concluded she had simply come down with food poisoning, Sansa had to bite her lip from laughing at the all-knowing Grand Maester’s ignorance. He suggested that she recuperate in bed the remainder of the day, but Sansa knew that once the sun set deep in the west, resting would be the last thing she would be doing.

Shortly before nightfall, Sansa sat at her vanity to brush out her hair until the natural waves shone like fire in the candlelight. Shae came by her bedchamber one last time for the day wearing a roguish grin and carrying something folded in her arms. 

“What is that?” Sansa asked.

“A gift, m’lady,” she purred, placing it onto her lap. 

Sansa picked it up and discovered that it was lace, paler than her ivory skin, and interwoven was thread that glittered in the candlelight. “Is this a hairnet?” 

Shae giggled as girlishly as ever and took it from her. “Stand up, m’lady.”

Sansa eyed her maid suspiciously before standing from her chair, wearing the same robe she had put on that morning. Quicker than she could believe, Shae tugged loose the belt and pulled the robe off her shoulders, leaving her as naked as her nameday. Afterwards, she placed the pale lace over Sansa’s head and guided her arms through it, pulling the garment down until the length of the skirt rested at her mid-thigh.

When Sansa dropped her head down, she realized that Shae had given her some sort of nightgown, but not one intended for highborn ladies or commoners. _This is meant for a whore,_ she knew. However, Sansa could not deny its beauty. The gown was so sheer that her nipples and maidenhair were visible beneath it, and the lace fit so snugly over her breasts that they threatened to spill out. While form fitting above, the soft gown was loose and airy around her waist and hips, and the paleness of the lace was almost as maidenlike as it was whorish. Each time she would move and spin around, the lace would shimmer in the candle light, and truly, Sansa never felt more beautiful. 

“I love it,” she admitted with a coy smile.

Shae kissed her cheek before departing for the night and kindly said, “He will, too, m’lady.”

Lying anxiously atop her bed, another hour had passed before Sansa heard the sound of footsteps inside the corridor, followed by armor rattling with every step. Her heart skipped a beat, knowing that within an hour's time she would be a maiden no longer. Sansa quickly stood from the bed, unsure whether she should be standing, sitting, or laying down when the Hound entered. The sheer nightgown swayed with each of her small steps as she paced about, floating about her like a soft, sparkling cloud. She sat first at her vanity, then at the edge of her bed, and as swiftly as she could, stood up and scurried over to the table, bending over the surface of it once she remembered what Shae had said about men enjoying taking women _outside_ of the bed, too. But wherever Sansa positioned herself, she felt awkward and cringed. _My boldness has fled,_ she fretted. _Dead and gone…right when it matters the most._

Once the heaviness of the footsteps stopped just outside of her door, Sansa lost her breath entirely and stood there motionless inside the middle of her bedchamber, the room softly lit up by the several tallow candles her maid had scattered about. Her eyes were fixated on the handle of the door, anticipating, waiting, watching for the metal to turn. Seconds passed, and yet the stillness endured.

 _Is he waiting for me?_ she wondered. _Could it be that he is as nervous as I am?_ Sansa very quickly doubted that.

When the Hound made no attempt to come in, Sansa approached the door as if it were a beast, slowly and warily, the suspense more dizzying than drinking the flagon of Arbor red the night before. With each step, Sansa posed a new question in her mind. _What do I say to him once I open the door? Must I say anything? Or will he simply come in and kiss me and take me? Where did my boldness go? Why did it have to go?_

Her perspiring hand met the handle and quivered. Sansa took in a deep, ragged breath, reckoning that once she opened the door and revealed herself wearing the sheer whore’s nightgown, the Hound would become so aroused that he would take her in an instant. _I’ll let the gown speak for me...it’s bolder than I am._

The handle turned almost achingly slow in her palm and when she could bear it no longer, Sansa ripped open the door. Her vivid blue eyes did not need to lift as high as usual to see the man on the other side, and upon the sight, Sansa felt as sick as she had that morning.

Ser Boros Blount eyed her cruelly, but the glower was soon replaced with a twisted, sick sort of lust once he surveyed the gown, gaping at her visible breasts underneath it. Before she could slam the door shut in his face, he stepped into the entrance and placed one gloved hand against the oak, forbidding it from closing. “I can see that you’re feeling better,” he said maliciously, his eyes traveling down to observe the auburn hue of her maidenhair underneath the lace. “Is _this_ what you had planned this morning when you wanted me to stay with you?”

Although a response was not possible given her current shock, Sansa was saved from it entirely when the second sound of footsteps came striding down the corridor, quicker and stronger than Ser Boros’ had been. _The Hound._ Sansa ran and hid behind her door, peeking over the edge to survey the inevitable awkward encounter between the two men of the Kingsguard.

“What do you want, dog?” Ser Boros asked irritably.

The Hound frowned once he discovered that her door was open, and Sansa observed a rage festering in his eyes once he stared at the knight in front of him. “His Grace has asked me to shield his betrothed for the night.”

The fleshy kingsguard snorted. “I thought you were off duty.”

“It can either be you or me, Boros. If you’d rather fuck yourself in the White Sword Tower than stand here for hours, then I suggest you bugger off before I change my mind.”

“I would, but the lady opened the door for me,” Ser Boros said complacently. “It appears she was expecting me.”

Sansa watched as the Hound’s hand shifted to rest on the hilt of his sword. “She wasn’t expecting you, you dumb cunt. Every night before I come in to beat her she comes out here and pleads for her little life, begs me for mercy. But I never give it. That’s why she asked His Grace for _you_ to watch her this morning, not me.”

Ser Boros scowled at him. “Does the tart always dress like a _whore_ when she’s expecting you?”

The Hound’s head snapped towards her, and his hand gripped the handle so fiercely she worried it would rip clean off the wood. There was no possibility of her hiding any longer, so she stepped back and let the door fly open, revealing herself to the two men.

As she slowly lifted her head from the ground, she saw that Sandor Clegane was engrossed with the sight of her. “No, she doesn’t,” he almost growled. “The girl must have thought that exposing herself to me would spare her, but that’s not like to happen. She’ll pay for it, too.” There was a truth to his words that ignited her arousal, the walls inside her sex clenching in response.

“I’ll spare her with my cock instead of my sword,” Ser Boros chuckled disgustingly. 

Sansa thought the Hound might kill him for that. Instead, he rasped, “Fuck off to a brothel. The girl needs to be beat.”

Ser Boros unsheathed his sword. “I’ll do it. I won’t allow the little whore not to fear me.”

The Hound ripped the steel from his swordbelt so quickly that the gown about her waist whispered. “She meant to deceive me, you bald cunt, so I’ll be the one to beat her.”

His brother of the Kingsguard startled and stepped away from the Hound like the craven he was. After he drank in the sight of her once more, licking his thin, ugly lips, Ser Boros yielded and sheathed his sword. “Don’t go easy on her then, dog,” he spat, departing down the corridor like a frustrated child.

Sandor Clegane took one methodical step inside her bedchamber, shutting the door behind him with such force that it frightened her. After he secured the latch, the Hound gave her a look so grim that she found herself taking a pace back. “The little bird grows hastier, still.”

Sansa’s voice was caught in her throat, and when she took two more steps back, she felt her back press against the wall.

The Hound did not drop his gaze when he removed his sword belt and tossed it onto the ground, the clash of steel against the stone startling her again. “I believe your hastiness just gave Boros fucking Blount a sight he’ll remember each time his cock is in his hand.” His armor came off afterwards, and once the last of it crashed against the floor, he approached her like a starving predator who had its prey cowered into a corner. Sansa had never felt more aroused and terrified all at once.

“Where’s this from?” he asked gruffly, pinching her nipple over the lace.

Sansa gasped at the sensation that stretched from her breast and down to her sex. “Shae,” she answered in a breath.

“Your maid might have been a whore once, little bird.”

“No she wasn’t,” she said, her voice slowly coming back to her. “She only wanted to help me…”

“Help you what?” he asked, his hand traveling down her back to cup the fullness of her ass.

Sansa moaned. “Help me please you,” she confessed.

“ _Please me_?” he asked incredulously. “Now why the bloody hell would you need help doing that?”

“Because I don’t know what to do,” she said meekly.

The Hound leaned down right beside her ear and whispered, “It seemed like you knew what you were doing when you groped my cock earlier.”

That made Sansa blush. “It’s only-- I’ve never been with a man.”

The Hound made a queer sound, guttural and low. “Now there’s a pretty song.”

“What is?”

“Hearing you say you’ve never been with a man,” he answered throatily. “It almost makes me feel guilty for what I am about to do to you.”

The arousal developing between her legs was all-consuming. Soon after his words she bit her lip, and the boldness she feared she had lost steadily returned. Sansa remembered Shae’s advice and said, “Or what _I_ will do to _you_.”

The Hound gave her a devilish side smirk before pulling himself away from her and stepping towards her vanity. In one smooth motion, he yanked the chair around until it faced her and sat in it with his legs stretched out, hands folded in his lap. “Go on then, girl.”

As he sat there eagerly awaiting her, Sansa wished for a cup of Arbor red. _Or a flagon_. Attempting to be as dauntless as the night before, she sauntered over to him and straddled his lap, kissing his neck softly like her maid explained to her. He reacted just as she had hoped, caressing her ass with both of his hands and spanking her so hard that she could feel a wetness escape her to seep into his trousers. The Hound moved his hands onto the front of her gown, pulling the lace down to unveil her supple breasts and taking one into his mouth. The start of their moment of passion was better than she could have fantasized, that is, until she tried to grind her hips on top of him and lost her balance, nearly tipping over backwards off his lap had he not grabbed her arm.

The Hound chuckled afterwards.

 _He’s laughing at me,_ Sansa thought, the sound of him instilling a deep anger inside her. _After hours spent talking with Shae, more hours spent mentally preparing for this moment, and here he sits, laughing at me._

In the blink of an eye, driven by humiliation and rage, Sansa lifted her hand and slapped him across the face. It was as if time froze upon the impact, for his humor ceased and her anger quelled, leaving the two to stare at one another blankly and in utter silence. _I’ve just hit the Hound,_ she thought, unbelieving. 

A massive hand seized her wrist. “Did your maid teach you that?” he growled, darker than she ever heard him.

Sansa’s voice was lost once again. All she could do was shake her head. 

“Good,” was the last word he snarled before attacking her, pressing his mouth onto hers and biting her lip. Sansa was not sure if their embrace could even be called kissing; it certainly was not what young ladies read in the stories. There was a mutual hunger for one another, a desire so dark that Sansa thought even her maid might blush if she could get inside her head. Every touch of his lips, his scars, his breath against her mouth drove her mad with an insatiable lust, and with her confidence at an all time high, she took the initiation to take it further.

Sansa removed her tongue from his and slid off his lap, sitting on the floor with her knees bent underneath her. Recalling what Shae had told her, as well as listening to her own provocative instincts, Sansa traveled her hands onto the top of his trousers and tugged on the fabric just enough to have his cock shoot out. 

“Oh, gods,” the whisper escaped her. Shae had warned her that a man of his stature would likely be large, but as Sansa took Sandor Clegane’s warm length into her hand, she could not fathom how it was supposed to fit inside her sex, let alone inside her mouth. Even so, she did not hesitate to lean forward and place the tip of it inside her mouth, using her tongue to lick around the head just as she had been instructed to do. The salty taste of his skin on her tongue was as appetizing to her as if it had been a delicacy. 

A long, deep exhale left him at the touch, indicating that he had been holding his breath since their last ferocious kiss ended. Sansa kept her jaw open wide as she lowered her mouth down the shaft, but was unable to reach the end of it before the tip poked the back of her throat. Suppressing the urge to gag at the sensation, Sansa wrapped the part of his length that was not inside of her mouth with her hand, stroking the softness of his skin just as Shae had explained to her, and lifted her head up slowly to repeat the process again and again. 

The Hound cursed with every shallow breath that he took. When Sansa heard the sound of wood cracking, she lifted her eyes and discovered that he had broken both arms of her chair with his hands wrapped around them. Her eyes then traveled up to his face, flushed with pleasure, and she almost paused when she realized that he was looking directly at her. Sansa had grown accustomed to meeting the Hound’s gaze, and whether in court or outside of her bedchamber, his eyes always spoke to her. Yet in that moment, her bright eyes submissively meeting his smoky eyes while his cock remained stiff and eager inside her mouth, it felt like the first time she had ever truly seen him; never had Sansa thought he looked more comely than he did in that moment. It reminded her of last night when the Hound had placed the cup of water on her mouth and how their eyes locked onto one another as she sipped. She then remembered what he said he wanted to do to her in that moment, and it almost made her smile knowing it had come to fruition. Sansa maintained the pace along with the eye contact and watched as he stared at her with rapture.

She had no awareness of time as she pleasured Sandor Clegane with her mouth, but it seemed as if no time had passed at all before he was placing his hand onto the back of her head, petting her wavy, auburn hair tenderly, and growling, “Get on your bloody back, girl.”

Sansa furrowed her brow with his cock still on her tongue and something about the sight drove him to lift her up underneath her arms and carry her over to the bed, plopping her down onto her back. Before she could adjust herself atop the blanket, the Hound was pulling her thighs down onto the edge and placed his face in between them while kneeling on the ground. _Shae never told me about this…_ Her hands rushed to push his head away, the sensation of his tongue lapping over her folds so immense she grew faint. The Hound was unyielding and tasted her with such hunger that she could feel the vibrations of his growling against her skin. Sansa tried to watch him just as he had watched her, eating her like a wolf might consume a fresh kill, but the pleasure became overbearing, forcing her to throw her head back against the bed. Sansa bit her lip and squeezed the blanket underneath her to prevent herself from peaking so soon. When it seemed impossible to resist, she pushed on his head once more and whimpered, “I want to finish with you inside me.”

His face was not visible due to the length of his hair covering it, but she could feel him smiling. “You’ll do that, too,” he said in a muffled voice.

Once it became clear to her that he would not surrender, Sansa succumbed to a pleasure that sent her to the most incapacitating of climaxes she had ever felt. Her fingers gripped the lace draped over her waist tightly, enough for her to hear the thread ripping ever slightly. The sound instigated the Hound to reach up with both hands and rip the gown off her in one fluid motion, leaving her naked, in bliss, and all the more prepared for what she knew was to come next. Once her moans quieted, he lifted her up from the edge and placed her head softly onto a pillow. Sansa was almost taken aback by how gentle he had become after embracing her mouth and her sex with such severity. _This next part will hurt,_ she knew, _and he wants me to be comfortable. He wants me to enjoy it._

Sansa heard the sound of his clothing hitting the floor as he disrobed and looked over to discover Sandor Clegane beside the bed as bare as he could be; not even the Warrior statue inside the sept had been sculpted so masculinely, so perfectly. She could smell herself on his breath as he lowered himself on top of her and could not resist the urge to kiss him, tasting the sweetness of her fluids. As her legs spread open for him, she could feel his cock grazing over her auburn curls, a sensation so arousing that it alone could have made her peak again. Reaching his hand down between her legs, the Hound brushed two fingers up and down her folds and teased her entrance. There was something about how he breathed, how he touched her, that made Sansa surmise that he was as nervous as she was about the pain she would soon experience. _How many people has the Hound tried_ **_not_ ** _to hurt?_ she wondered. _Only me._

The muscled hand against her entrance left, only to be replaced with the head of his cock as he guided himself inside of her. A drop of sweat dripped off his forehead and onto her cheek when he shifted forward ever slightly. Sansa muffled her cry into his forearm beside her. It hurt worse than Shae said it would; her maid said it would sting and burn the same way quickly touching a flame might, but to Sansa, it felt like she had touched a flame only for it to engulf her entire body. Even so, knowing that it was merely a temporary discomfort that would bring herself closer to Sandor Clegane helped her fight through it. Sansa refused to push him away and spurned the idea of asking him to stop. 

Although it did not feel like it, the Hound was being as gentle with her as ever, much like how he would be when Joffrey would order him to grab her, drag her, or pick her up. The restrain building up inside of him was apparent in how taut his muscles were. _This must be painfully slow for him._ As he pressed himself further in, Sansa lifted one hand to cup his cheek and felt the same tenseness in his clenched jaw. _It’s a beautiful pain,_ Sansa thought once he was fully inside of her. _Beautiful and painful, for the both of us._

Gradually, a rhythm was built, and Sansa’s moans and whimpers came with every one of his grunts. _If anyone hears us, we are both dead_ . Rather than the thought frightening her, it only made the experience more thrilling. _If we are to be caught, I want to die knowing I made the most out of this moment._

“Sandor,” she breathed. 

“Gods, say that again,” he groaned with pleasure.

Her hands met his chest and pressed against it, as futile as pressing against a stone wall. “Get up.”

The Hound paused suddenly and looked down at her, breathless. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Sansa witnessed the despair in his eyes and watched how it was replaced with dark intrigue when she whispered, “I want to try something.” Reluctantly, he pulled out of her, groaning as he did it, and Sansa could feel a wetness trickle out of her entrance once he was no longer inside. Acting on instinct, her hand wiped the area between her legs, finding it tender, warm, and drenched. “Did you--”

“No,” he exhaled, sitting back atop the bed, “that’s all you, girl.”

When Sansa lifted her hand closer to her face, she saw the clear fluid she was familiar with, but mixed within it was the faintest hue of red. _My maiden’s blood._ It was much less than she feared it would be, and was relieved to learn the wetness she felt escaping her was predominantly her arousal, produced in response to Sandor Clegane. The feel of it on her fingers made her feel more daring than even the wine. Gracefully, Sansa rolled over onto her belly, and just like Shae had shown her, bent her knees and arched her back. When she neither heard nor felt a response from the Hound, she looked over her shoulder at him and saw that he was only sitting there, biting his lip and staring. 

“What are you waiting for?” she asked, impatient and charged with lust. 

The Hound smirked malevolently and spanked her ass hard enough to bruise it, causing her to whimper into the pillow. “Bloody hasty, little bird,” he rasped. Two large hands gripped her hips to pull her closer, pressing his erect cock against her entrance.

It felt like he was tearing into her maidenhead all over again once he entered her, however, Sansa preferred this position since she was able to bite, cry, and squeeze into the pillow rather than mutilate his arm at the onset of the pain. Unique, deeper groans escaped him as he took her from behind, his hands grasping her hips with so much force she knew that he would not last much longer. Remembering one last thing Shae had said, Sansa lowered her hand underneath her, placing her fingers on the firm nub just above where the Hound was thrusting inside of her. Her maid advised her to do it to quicken her climax, but she never mentioned that the sight of her doing so would quicken his as well. 

“Seven fucking hells,” she heard him curse painfully behind her. The vulgar words sent her over the edge, and with her fingers circling between her folds and Sandor Clegane’s length sliding in and out of her gushing entrance, she surrendered to the pleasure, moaning wantonly into the pillow. 

Within the same breath, the Hound wrapped his hands around her waist, thrusted himself twice more inside of her, and moaned agonizingly, making no attempt to pull out before his seed was filling her entrance. His climax lasted longer than she expected, and Sansa could not help but smile into the pillow when she listened to him curse as he made to pull himself out of her. Her legs felt strange and numb when she lowered herself down onto her belly, wincing when she made the mistake of tightening her walls, the bittersweet aftermath of having a man as large as Sandor Clegane inside of her.

Once he collapsed onto the pillow beside her, she had the roguish idea to stroke his pulsing cock with her hand, making him jolt. “Bloody hell,” he groaned, “it’s like to fall off if you keep that up.” 

“Oh, sorry,” Sansa said, feigning innocence with a smile. There was a contentedness, a genuine happiness inside her that she had never felt before, an immediate product of their love making.

The Hound’s hand fell onto the small of her back, softly brushing his palm over the curve of her ass. “Gods,” he cursed, “if I wake up in that bloody White Sword Tower, I’ll do my buggering brother a favor and walk right out of the window.”

Sansa combed her fingers through the thin dark strands of hair that covered his face and brushed it back, allowing her to see the face of the man she knew she loved. “That’s not funny.”

“Nor would it be funny if I woke up with my cock in my hand.”

Despite herself, Sansa giggled and nuzzled her face against his chest, hoping it would confirm to him that the moment they lived in was indeed a reality. “I can hardly believe it,” she whispered.

“Believe what, girl?” he asked drowsily.

“That you’re in my bed. It’s what my maid and I were gossiping about last night. She asked if I could have _anyone_ in my bed who would I choose. And I told her you.”

Even his laugh was sleepy. “Seven hells, the little bird is delusional.” When she sat up and frowned at him, he opened his eyes and said, “Go ahead and scowl all you want.”

“First I’m hasty, and now I’m _delusional_?”

The scarred side of his mouth twitched and she could perceive the faintest taunting smile on his lips. “I can list off a few more while we’re at it.” Sansa lifted her hand to slap him again, but the Hound was quicker and caught her wrist, yanking her down on top of him. “Temperamental,” he added, placing a heavy kiss on her mouth, “violent,” he said while rolling over on top of her, pinning her wrist against the pillow, “and fucking perfect.”

It was Sansa who initiated the following embrace, and before she knew it, the Hound was guiding himself back inside of her, the aching between her legs paling in comparison to the resurgence of her desire. Sansa couldn’t think of a better time to say the words, escaping her in a whimper against his mouth. “I love you…Sandor Clegane, I love you.”

He paused mid-thrust and stared at her, a familiar look in his eyes, one that she had seen many times before but suddenly realized that she had been reading it wrong all along. _It wasn’t only desire, it was..._ “And I love you, little bird,” he said, kissing her neck so viciously the side of her face pressed against the pillow. “Sansa Stark, I bloody love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  **Connect with me on** [Tumblr!](https://thequeen--in--thenorth.tumblr.com/)


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